


The Little Things

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Confessions, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse Mentioned, Pining, friends-to-lovers, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Sometimes, it's the little things that mean the most. The soft words, the comforting gestures. The touch of a hand, the shift of a smile. Sometimes it's the little things that say 'I love you' more than the three words themselves. Since entering Newt Scamander's care, Credence finds himself saying 'I love you' without actually confessing to the clueless magizoologist out front.Prompts taken from One Hundred Ways to Say 'I Love You'





	1. Let Me Do That For A While

It’s a well known fact (at least to Credence) that while Mr. Newt Scamander takes excellent care of his creatures, when it comes to his own health he’s a bit lacking. Oh, he eats. He eats biscuits and drinks an absurd amount of tea, and makes himself a sandwich to stuff into his mouth in between environments. All in all, his eating habits are well and good.

His sleeping habits, however, are not.

“How on earth did I manage this one?”

Credence turns from where he’s waiting for the kettle to whistle, looking to Newt. The man’s sat at his desk, his manuscript before him. There’s a stack of pages next to him covered in aubergine-colored ink, corrections to be made to the typed words. 

“No, no, graphorn horns stop growing at 36 centimeters, not 38. How did I manage that one?”

The man’s been muttering to himself for the past few hours, now, as he recalls his notes and looks over the pages before him. Credence hasn’t been there for all of it, working with the creatures and ensuring that the magizoologist has a sandwich beside him and a cup of tea, but nothing’s really changed in the time from when he sat down to this moment. Newt’s hair is still wild from him running his fingers through it, his waistcoat still unbuttoned, his elbows still propped on the worn, potion-stained wood. 

The kettle whistles, the sound shrill and high, and Credence hurries to get it off of the small burner. Newt is seemingly oblivious, muttering once more and marking another page before he taps the paper with his wand, ink drying with a soft word before he sets it on top of the others.

No cream, two sugars, Credence reminds himself as he pours the tea into a mug, the leaves tucked into a fine silk sack. It’ll need to steep, he knows, and so he walks forward to the man he’s come to think of as a dear friend, and companion, and maybe even a guardian. Maybe more than that, he thinks with a flush to his pale cheeks as he stands beside the magizoologist. 

Newt doesn’t even notice he’s there, too engrossed in his work to look up. It takes a good few heartbeats of awkward standing, and then a touch to Newt’s shoulder before he gets the man’s attention. At the slight touch, Newt startles, the quill filled with dark purple ink skidding across the paper, thankfully leaving only a light mark and a little splatter. Still, Newt gives a small, “Bugger!” as he takes a rag and tries to blot the splatter as best as he can. 

“I’m sorry-“ Credence offers, voice soft as his heart clenches in panic that he’s done something wrong, again, he’ll be punished, he’ll be hurt-

“No harm done, not at all,” Newt assures him, and relief floods him like a drop ink into clear water, clouding his mind and spreading quickly. No, Newt would never hurt him, would never wordlessly open his hand for the leather around his waist. 

In the low light of the desk lamp, Credence can now see that the magizoologist has circles under his eyes, dark and deep. He frowns even as Newt offers a half smile, quick to fade as he looks to his papers again. 

“Almost finished the edits, now.” His voice is soft, and Credence can see the tensing of his shoulders and back from being hunched over for so long, can see that his hair’s in need of a wash and he’s starting to lose steam quickly. 

He wonders if the man has in fact run out, and is only running on fumes. 

“I made tea,” he offers. 

“Oh, wonderful, thank you, Credence. That’s much appreciated.” His eyes don’t move from the pages, and Credence knows he no longer has the man’s attention. 

It’s hard to have it entirely, he knows. But usually at least he has some portion of it. Not tonight, it seems. 

He fixes the tea, two lumps of sugar and no cream, and sets it beside the magizoologist. Newt’s muttering under his breath again, comparing his journal to the manuscript. Credence stands there for a moment more before going to seek out Dougal. When visible, at least, the creature’s good company when Newt’s busy. And Newt is apparently very busy. 

He stays with the demiguise for Lord-knows how long, but most of the habitats have turned to night by the time he enters the small home again, and his new always-accurate wizard watch tells him it’s a little after 11, the face darkening as the sky in London fades to black. He steps inside the small wooden structure, and stares at the magizoologist still leaning over the pages. He’s slipped down, his posture horrid as he leans on the desk with his nose nearly pressed to the paper, still muttering as he reads aloud. 

Newt was up before he was. Newt was working on the pages the night before. Credence wonders if the man slept at all. 

A few steps closer and a better look tell him that the man’s barely taken a sip of the tea, the drink long gone cold by now. Credence takes the mug and doesn’t get so much as a thanks or a look as he dumps and rinses it, setting it back in the small cupboard. 

“No, no, that’s not right…” 

“Is it grammar?” 

The question falls from his lips before he can stop it, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Newt stopping and sitting up a bit, looking to him in surprise. 

“Some of it, yes,” Newt says after a moment. 

“I can help with grammar.” It’s a soft offer, almost whispered as he remembers the countless paperback books, the harsh tongue of his moth – Mary Lou, and the occasional lash if he didn’t complete it fast enough or got enough of it wrong. As horrible as he knows it now to be, it did cement the knowledge, and he proofed the leaflets often. “I’m good with it.” 

“Are you?” Newt asks, and Credence turns as the man looks back to the pages. “That’s very kind, Credence, but there are other things-“

“You need sleep, Mr. Scamander.” Oh, he’d be lashed for interrupting, but Newt just stares at him, green eyes glazed over as he processes Credence’s words.

“Newt,” the man replies, voice soft, but he doesn’t protest to the sleep. Credence watches him as he sets the quill in the inkpot and rubs the back of his eye with his wrist. “I just need to complete a few more pages, and then I’ll finish the dragons portion. And then I’ll sleep.” 

He sounds like a child. Credence steps forward, taking the pages that remain beside him. “I-I can check for grammar,” he offers gently. “And then you can fact check tomorrow?” 

There’s a moment of the magizoologist staring at him blankly, his brain too foggy and tired to process even the slightest statement. “Fact check tomorrow,” Newt repeats, eyes darting to the pages he’s already done. 

“You’ve already looked over so much,” Credence insists, hoping the reassurance will sway Newt's decision in his favor.

“… yes, I have,” Newt agrees, the words mumbled. 

“I can do the rest of these,” Credence insists, and he can see the resolve of the man before him crumbling like a dry biscuit in warm milk. The tension in Mr. Scamander’s shoulders eases, and then he’s nodding, running his hand through his hair and standing, offering another twitch of a half smile. 

“I would very much appreciate that,” Newt says in that soft tone that he nearly always uses, and Credence watches as the man walks towards the bedroom, battle lost (though not very hard fought). The 20 year old lets himself smile, just the slightest twitch of his lips as Newt nearly walks into a hanging pot, muttering “How did you get there?” in his lack-of-sleep-induced deliriousness, before walking back into the bedroom and closing the door. 

He can do the rest of the papers, if it means that Mr. Newt Scamander takes care of himself for a few hours.


	2. It Reminded Me Of You

Perhaps one of the strangest things he’s come to have during his time in Newt Scamander’s care is an allowance. Or at least, what he considers to be an allowance. If there are gold and silver and bronze coins in his pockets after returning from errands, then he’s allowed to keep them, and use them as he wishes. It’s strange, especially for someone who’s only held pamphlets and never cash, and was never allowed to want (for that would be greed). But it’s wonderful, at the same time, and the first time he buys something there’s this rush of euphoria that returns every time he slips the gloves on, the fur inside charmed to be always warm. 

He’s been saving the coins. For what, he has no idea. But he has a small pouch of them, a collection of both his and the ones Newt just handed him, as he goes out to collect more ingredients for the salve that the wounded male Graphorn needs to heal properly. 

They’re simple ingredients, ones he’s collected before, and he’s finished quickly with the errand, holding the brown paper bag of varying herbs and leaves and roots to be ground and made into a paste for the poor creature. He’s cradling the bag in his arms when he passes one of the stores where Newt gets his quills, and stops. 

Perhaps it’s because he’s seen the man's journal out on the table, its spine broken in several places and pages refusing to stick inside despite being charmed over and over again. Perhaps it’s because he’s seen the worn leather and watched Newt’s frustration as he turns a page and it comes off in his hand. Maybe it’s just because the black leather journal in the window with yellow-painted illustrations reminds him of the man’s grey and yellow Hufflepuff scarf, the colours familiar after seeing the sweaters and the ties and the scarf in Newt’s closet. 

Or maybe it’s just a feeling he has as he watches the linework flowers on the cover bloom over and over and over again, spreading their petals before returning to a bud, and starting the cycle over again. The man has a book of beasts, but he knows so much more. 

The shop is warm compared to the chilly London autumn air, and he breathes in the smell of ink and leather and paper as he clutches the brown bag to his chest. 

“May I help you?” 

He startles a bit as the shopowner approaches him, a slight grey-haired woman with glasses that nearly cover her face and a smile that’s friendlier than any glance he’d gotten in New York. 

“Y-yes,” he stutters, for no matter how many times he asks for ingredients or books or anything that Newt requires, he’s always nervous. “I wanted to ask about the book in the window, the black and yellow one?”

-

“I was starting to wonder if you were ever coming home.” 

The flat smells of beef stew, hearty and rich. Credence closes the door behind him with his hip, seeing Newt standing at the small stove of their shared apartment, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and peering into a recipe book as the stew stirs itself and a knife chops herbs on the nearby cutting board. 

“I took the long way,” Credence lies. It’s easier, now. Little white things, of course, never anything serious. Newt seems to know, Newt seems to always know, but he never says a word, never offers anything other than a smile that seems to say ‘I’m here if you need me.’

“Ah,” Newt offers, obviously distracted as he observes the recipe book again. “The very long way?” he teases, and Credence sets the bag of ingredients down to be taken into the case and hung later, to be put in their properly labeled jars and assorted according to Newt’s strange organization system. Organization meaning ‘put it anywhere that it fits’. 

“The very long way,” Credence agrees gently as he pulls the wrapped book from under his coat. The woman had kindly wrapped it in brown paper for him, tied with a red ribbon as though it’s a Christmas present. It’s not particularly near Christmas, it being early November, but he appreciates it anyway. It makes it look like he tried harder. 

Newt removes the spoon from the stew and puts it between his teeth for a moment – a horrible habit the man has, and one Credence curses as it draws attention to that wide, perfect mouth every single damn time. He’s sure Newt's wand, pens, spoons, and almost everything the man puts in his hand have bite marks in them. 

“Did you get the thyme?” 

“Right here,” Credence offers, rummaging in the bag for the sprigs wrapped with twine. His hand passes the bottles of insect eyes and vials of blood and slime, and he emerges victorious, passing the sprigs to the magizoologist. He watches, unsurprised, as Newt plucks a sprig straight from the bundle and drops it into the stew pot. He snorts and shakes his head, sealing the bag back up. 

He watches the ginger man for a few moments. Newt moves back and forth between the pastries in the oven and the stew, magic doing most of it, but Credence has long since learned that if Newt Scamander is doing something, he is going to be doing at least part of it by hand, if not entirely when it concerns his creatures. 

He watches for a few heartbeats more before he gives a soft cough. Though the man doesn’t stop, Newt does turn his head towards the younger man, eyes wide in question. 

That’s his cue, he supposes. Credence takes hold of the wrapped journal and steps forward, watching as Newt takes the spoon from his mouth and sets it across the stewpot. “I bought you something.” 

“But it’s not Christmas,” Newt protests immediately, blinking in confusion. 

Shit. This is not the way he wanted this to go. “No,” Credence says, voice significantly softer. “But it reminded me of you. You don’t have to open it now, if you don’t want to. I can save it for Christmas if you’d like, it’s already wrapped and-“

The package is already being taken from his hands, nimble fingers eagerly but oh-so-carefully untying the bow. When it comes to the paper, though, all care is set aside in favor of tearing it off. Newt’s holding it upside down, so all he sees at first is a black cover, and he stares at it. “Oh,” he says, voice pitched in surprise. “A new journal?” 

“Turn it over,” Credence explains, and he watches as Newt pulls the rest of the brown paper away and flips the journal over. The flowers seem to flourish at their new owner’s touch, the daffodils and lilies and irises blooming as Newt touches the leather reverently. 

“You have so much information about your beasts,” the boy offers. “But you know a lot about plants as well, and potions and poultices, and I just thought … “

He thought it pretty, and he’d never use it, and he doesn’t know why the flowers’ soft yellow hue and beauty reminded him of sunshine and New York on its few bright days and all things good and the magizoologist standing in front of him, green eyes watching the flowers bloom over and over again. 

“I thought it might be useful?” he finishes. 

Newt still hasn’t said anything, and Credence’s heart clenches in his chest as he looks down towards the floor. “You don’t have to use it,” he says quickly. “I can take it back, it wasn’t that much, I just thought-“

“It’s wonderful.” 

It’s a soft breath of a phrase, and Credence looks up to see Newt smiling – no, not smiling, grinning – at the flowers as they bloom once more across the cover, starting in the lower left corner and moving upwards. 

“I can write down antidotes for bites and scratches, I can include remedies for sicknesses, I can put down preferred diets, I can write down everything that didn’t fit in the first one,” Newt says, and Credence has the feeling he’s just making up reasons now, but he’s certainly not going to stop the magizoologist, not when he’s beaming like a sunray and wearing that little overjoyed half-smile Credence knows so well. “Thank you, Credence. This … this is perfect, thank you.” 

“It reminded me of you,” Credence repeats once more, and that’s when Newt looks up at him, still smiling. 

“Did it now?” he asks, and Credence watches the beautiful flowers spread into full, sunshine-y blooms once more, and thinks yes, yes, it did.


End file.
